


just for one day

by aude_sapere



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Billy Hargrove Tries to Be a Better Person, Billy Hargrove's Everlast Crop Top, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay Disaster Billy Hargrove, Hurt Steve Harrington, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overuse of italics, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Steve Harrington Being an Idiot, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Harrington Is a Mess, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington's Nail Bat, Steve Harrington-centric, of sorts, this entire thing is very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27465937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aude_sapere/pseuds/aude_sapere
Summary: Steve can’t remember the last time he got a full night’s sleep.His hands won’t stop fucking shaking.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 123





	just for one day

**Author's Note:**

> so i just want to say that this was originally supposed to be an 'enemies to fuck buddies to lovers' fic, but for some reason, i found myself entirely incapable of writing these two fucking and keeping it authentic to the characters so. this happened instead.
> 
> inspiration taken from just about every harringrove trope on this damn website. i basically combined all of my favorite ones and this was the outcome.

**November 6th, 1984.**

Steve can’t remember the last time he got a full night’s sleep. Certainly not since Halloween. Perhaps even before that.

He hates it. Hates that he can’t close his eyes without seeing the junkyard and flower faces filled with teeth and Billy Hargrove’s manic grin.

He keeps the lights on at night, can’t handle the anxious paranoia that comes with the darkness.

He sleeps on the sofa, when he does sleep. His bedroom is upstairs, and the only escape route it offers is through the window; not ideal for a quick getaway.

In spite of all of these things, in spite of sleeping with his bat propped against the coffee table, he still only manages a couple hours a night. A couple of hours of miserable, unsettled sleep, fraught with nightmares and tossing and turning.

So he drives. He takes the winding, narrow backroads that lead him absolutely nowhere. The ones that are littered with potholes and animal carcasses in varying states of decay.

Steve drives and he watches and he waits. He waits, because even though Hopper told them the Gate is closed, even though the Upside-Down is sealed off—he knows it’s just a matter of time.

This is the third night in a row that he’s gone out. He’s fallen into a rhythm of sorts; he drives, he watches the woods and the cornfields, and, when he finally reaches a point of exhaustion, he pulls over on the shoulder of the road and dozes until sunrise.

Healthy? Probably not. But he doesn’t know what else to _do_.

His hands won’t stop fucking shaking.

He reaches over to crank up the heat in the Beemer, exhaling sharply through his nose. The sound of the tires on the pavement just barely keeps the silence from suffocating him.

It rained last night. The road is black and slick, and it cuts through the cornfields like a winding river of tarmac.

There’s a full moon coming up in a few days, a lunar eclipse; Dustin won’t shut the hell up about it. Not that Steve minds, really. There really is no better distraction than Dustin.

Now, the moon is waxing. Not quite full, but cold and bright and eerie.

He eases off the gas a bit, brings a hand up to carefully rub at his temple. He’s had a nonstop headache for the past week—ever since Billy fucked up his face, actually.

Nancy and Mrs. Byers, hell, even the Chief had wanted him to go to the hospital. After a half an hour of constant nagging, he snapped and told them he would, and, in his annoyance, he asked Jonathan for a ride without really thinking about how awkward it would be.

Not that it ended up being awkward, because Steve had fallen asleep almost as soon as they started driving. Jonathan had shaken him awake once they reached Hawkins Memorial, and Steve had muttered a thanks and climbed out of the car.

The second Jonathan drove out of sight, Steve shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and began the trek home.

So yeah. He’d shut himself up at home for few days to sleep off the concussion, and now he’s fine. Sure, he still gets headaches and his nose is still a little tender. Sure, most of the cuts are still healing—the one up by his hairline is definitely going to scar—and the area beneath his eyes is a sickly green-yellow color. Sure, he hasn’t mustered the courage to go back to school. Sure, his hands tremble constantly and he hasn’t gotten a full-night’s sleep since Halloween.

But he’s _fine_.

When he’d tried to convince Mrs. Byers of this two days ago, when he’d shown up to drive Dustin home, she just gave him that soft, sad smile and a pat on the arm.

His grip tightens around the steering wheel.

He’s _fine_ , why can’t everyone see that he’s-

Something darts across the road, a large flash of movement caught in the headlights of the car. Steve slams on the breaks and the tires lock up, skidding over the wet tarmac.

When the car finally comes to a stop, nearly horizontal on the road and blocking both lanes of nonexistent traffic, Steve almost falls in his haste to get out of the car, grabbing onto the door and pulling himself upright.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he whispers on repeat, hands shaking so hard that he has to try three times before he finally gets the trunk opened. He grabs the flashlight and flips it on, whirling around.

Nothing.

He backtracks, feet scuffing against the pavement. The flashlight’s beam cuts through the wet chill of the night. It’s dark. Dark dark _dark_.

Steve shivers, wishes he’d grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat. He glances back at the Beemer. The car’s interior lights are on, and he left the trunk open. The headlights are directed uselessly into the field.

The corn is at its tallest. Long, golden stalks that are impossible to see through. Still, Steve sweeps the flashlight over the field, chewing his lower lip.

Whatever had bolted in front of the car, it had been _big_. Maybe a deer, but maybe something else too.

He glances back at his car, debates whether to go grab the crowbar in the trunk.

Before he can decide, he hears a soft rustling from the field, a short distance ahead and to the left.

He grips the flashlight tighter, wills his hands to stop trembling.

“Hey,” he calls, but his voice hitches, and it comes out as a whisper. He shakes his head, angry at himself. He switches the flashlight to his left hand and clears his throat. “Hey! I’m right over here, fucker!”

By yelling, he will get an answer either way, he reasons; if it _is_ a deer, it’ll run off. If it’s not, well...

Fuck, he should’ve brought his bat.

He sucks in a breath, opens his mouth to yell again, when the rustling becomes sharper, louder.

Closer.

Something in the field snaps.

Steve turns around so quickly that he slips, throwing his hands out to catch himself. He drops the flashlight and scrapes his palms on the wet tarmac, but the sting doesn’t even register. He leaves the flashlight and lunges towards his car, heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

_Oh my god oh my god oh my god-_

He wraps his fingers around the crowbar and brings it up like a bat, spinning back around to face the threat.

In the time it takes for his eyes to adjust back to the darkness, his flashlight lying useless on the road a couple yards away, Steve doesn’t hear anything else. At least, he doesn’t think so; it’s hard to tell over the rasp of his own harsh breaths and his pulse thudding in his ears.

_Come on... come on, you son of a bitch._

He chews the inside of his cheek. Tastes copper and forces himself to stop.

His fingers ache with how hard he’s gripping the crowbar. He’s wound so tight that he can feel his muscles cramping up. But his hands are still.

A faint rumbling sound makes Steve jump, high-strung as he is. He settles quickly, realizes it’s just the farmers coming out to harvest. He remembers when Tommy explained that to him a couple years ago, when Steve had asked why they did it at night instead of during the day.

Except the rumbling rapidly grows louder, closer. There’s no way that’s a combine.

Steve recognizes that sound- why does he-

He’s blinded by a pair of dazzling headlights, approaching _fast_ Jesus fucking _Christ-_

Steve drops the crowbar with a metallic clatter and lurches towards the ditch on the side of the road, the roar of the Camaro ringing in his ears. The tires squeal as the car attempts to come to a too-quick stop, and Steve watches, eyes wide, as the car starts to fishtail, then jerks to an abrupt halt just feet from the Beemer.

A relieved breath punches out of his lungs. _Lucky bastard._

Steve hasn’t even moved, rooted to the side of the road, when Billy flings the door of the Camaro open and steps out, the thump of heavy base spilling out behind him. The music is cut off when Billy slams the door.

He stares at Steve’s car for a long, _long_ moment, then turns his head, gaze flicking across the road in quick, darting movements. His eyes land on Steve.

“Harrington?”

He doesn’t sound angry—surprised, maybe, or confused. Wary, even. But not angry.

And that’s ultimately what gets Steve back in action, taking a slow step closer to the cars.

“Yeah, it’s me.” The ‘don’t-cream-your-pants’ goes unsaid this time.

Billy squints at him, gaze flickering to the crowbar on the ground. “Are you... The fuck are you doing out here?”

And Steve doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know if it’s the lack of sleep or if it’s the fact that he’s already on edge or if it’s just because it’s Billy—but the words bring out something mean in him.

“None of your goddamn business, Hargrove,” he snaps, and in the sharpness of the Camaro’s headlights he can see the way Billy’s face shifts, the way his eyes go hard and his mouth curls into a sneer.

It throws Steve for a loop; he hadn’t even realized Billy’s face was open until it closes off, like a wall dropping behind his eyes.

“Would you look at that, ladies and gentlemen. Looks like someone _finally_ grew a pair of balls,” Billy says, voice low and cutting. He takes a step forward, all faux-leisure and fluid movements. He stops just on the other side of the headlights, the sudden backdrop of harsh light making it difficult for Steve to make out his features.

“I’d be careful, if I were you,” Billy continues, a rumbling purr, teeth flashing in a too-wide grin. “Wouldn’t want to give me the wrong idea.”

And suddenly, Steve is just- just _so_ over it.

Without entertaining Billy with a reply, he walks over to the trunk of the Beemer, finally shutting it. Fuck it, he’s going home.

Before he can get all the way around the car to the driver’s side, Billy is crowding up against him, pushing him back against the car. He blocks the glare of the Camaro’s headlights with his head, and the glow turns his curls white. There’s a fading bruise, a watercolor of blue and green, curving across his cheekbone.

“Going somewhere, amigo?” Billy says, goading. He’s got that intensity in his eyes, the one that Steve is starting to recognize.

He’s looking for a fight.

Steve rolls his eyes, bringing a hand back to tap his knuckles against his car. “Yeah. Home.”

He punctuates this with a small shove against Billy’s chest. “So, if you could get off me, I’ll be on my way.”

But Billy doesn’t back off; rather, he presses in closer, bracketing Steve in. He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, a challenge.

Waiting for Steve to throw the first punch.

They stand in silence for a long moment, too long, tension growing thicker by the second. Steve drops his eyes, can’t help it. Can’t hold eye contact with that icy fire.

A spark of annoyance—both at himself and at Billy—makes Steve scoff. Mouth two steps ahead of his brain when he mutters, “Could’ve at least bought me dinner before trying to get in my pants. Y’sure know how to treat a lady.”

A beat of silence.

Then Billy decks him.

The punch rattles him, cranks his headache up several notches. Steve slumps back against the car, blinks the dark spots from his eyes.

Billy grabs him, hands winding tight in Steve’s shirt and pulling him in close, leering. Reminds Steve of when Tommy had gotten angry at him after his fight with Jonathan. Shit, was that really a year ago?

“You watch your fucking mouth,” Billy spits, his voice low and shaking with fury, and yeah, he’s pissed—more pissed than Steve’s ever heard him actually.

“Jesus, dude, get the hell off me,” Steve snaps, but he still can’t meet Billy’s eyes. “What, you homophobic, too? It’s 1984, grow the hell up.”

Billy goes still. Deathly still.

Steve looks up. Expects to see an ungodly amount of rage, but-

Billy’s face has gone soft, lips pressed in a thin line. Eyebrows drawn together and anger giving way to something like confusion. His grip eases up, just a bit.

“What do you mean, ‘too’?” he says, gruff and maybe a little defensive. There’s a sudden tenseness to the way he holds himself—not anger. Something else.

Steve stops himself before he can roll his eyes. Doesn’t want to piss him off again. He forces himself to keep his voice nice and even, _not_ accusatory, when he says, “The way you went after Lucas last week? Come on, you can’t pretend that was over something else.”

Billy’s frown clears, replaced with a sudden, intense look of bitterness. He lets go of Steve’s shirt, knocks him back so that he stumbles, catching himself on the car.

“Fuck you,” Billy spits. “You don’t know shit about me.”

He stomps back over to the Camaro. He slips inside and rolls his windows down, music blasting. He gives Steve the finger, throws the car into reverse and turns around, peeling off the same way he came.

Steve stares after him, long after the taillights are out of sight. Doesn’t know how long he just stands there, leaning his weight against the car, before he comes back to himself.

Shaking off the encounter, Steve huffs and collects the flashlight and crowbar, loading them back into the trunk and sliding in behind the wheel.

Steve keeps the radio off on the drive back home, cogs turning in his brain.

What was Billy doing out here? Better yet, why did he get so angry when Steve made the comment about buying him dinner first? It was just a _joke_.

If anything, Steve would expect Billy to be _more_ open-minded than most of the people in Hawkins. From what his parents have told him about California, they’re a lot more tolerant and less discriminatory about things like that.

 _Things are changing_ , his mom has told him. _And it’s about time, too._

So yeah—Billy targeting Lucas? It gives Steve a slimy feeling, a tight churn in his stomach.

But it also _doesn’t make sense_. Their basketball coach is black. Chris on the team is black. Steve’s literally seen Billy and Chris sharing a cigarette in the parking lot after practice.

So why target Lucas? He’s just a kid.

And as far as Steve is concerned, he and the rest of those little shits have been through enough-

Steve is pulled from his thoughts as his house comes into view.

The lights are off. All of them, except for the one in the living room. That’s the first thing he notices.

The second thing he notices is the painfully familiar black Mercedes parked in the driveway.

_Fuck._

Steve slows the Beemer to a crawl, is debating whether he could drive past without getting seen when he sees the outline of his mom peering out the window.

Spotted.

Heaving a sigh, Steve turns into the driveway, making sure not to park his parents’ car in. They always get pissy when he does that.

Just as he’s turning the key in the ignition, reaching over to push the door open, he freezes.

He-

He’s been sleeping in the living room. He left the _bat_ in the living room.

Stomach twisting with dread, Steve slowly climbs out of the car, stuffs his hands in his pockets and shuffles up to the front door.

Stepping inside, he’s immediately greeted by his mom’s worried frown. She waits for him to toe off his shoes, then leads him into the living room without a word, hand resting, feather-light, against his shoulder.

His dad is sitting in the armchair, hands clasped together. His eyes lock on Steve’s as soon as he rounds the corner, and Steve’s jittering hands tighten into loose fists when he takes in the pinched corners of his dad’s mouth, the subtle clench of his jaw as his eyes roam Steve’s bruised face.

“Take a seat, son. I think we need to have a little chat, you and I,” he says, gesturing to the armchair on the opposite side of the sofa. The sofa with Steve’s blankets spread across it, bunched and wrinkled.

Steve, knowing that trying to escape the lecture will be inevitable, perches on the edge of the chair, bringing his hands out of his pockets to press them between his knees.

He resolutely keeps his gaze away from the bat leaning against the coffee table.

Without a word, his mom vanishes down the hall. As soon as the door to the office closes, his dad starts in.

“Care to explain yourself?”

Steve shifts, shoulders hunching. He says nothing.

“Well, let’s start with why your mother and I came home. We got a call from the school. They said they were concerned, that you haven’t shown up at all for the past week. Your mother and I were understandably worried, so imagine our surprise when we come home to _this_.” He gestures to the sofa, to the bat, then to Steve’s face.

His mouth pulls into a hard frown. It’s not much, hardly more than a twitch of muscle, but it’s enough to tell Steve just how furious he really is. And Steve- Steve doesn’t know how to react to that.

His dad doesn’t _get_ angry. He gets disappointed and frustrated, but not angry. Steve is so used to only getting indifference from his father that this catches him off-guard, unsettles him.

“What happened to your face, Steven?”

“I just- I- I got in a fight with some guy from school. It’s nothing.”

“ _Again?”_ his dad hisses. “Was it the same boy as last time? Lonnie’s son?”

“No, dad,” Steve says, tongue heavy and thick in his mouth. The subtle ache in his head is returning with a vengeance.

“So let me get this straight: you get into a fight with _some_ _guy_ , decide to skip school for a week despite your already deplorable grades, and ruin your mother’s nice sofa?”

Protest builds in Steve’s throat. “Sleeping on the couch is _hardly_ ruining it-”

“- _And_ ,” his dad continues, “ _and_ you have this- this _weapon_.”

His dad stand abruptly, grabs the base of the nail-studded bat. He glares at it, disgusted. He points at Steve with his free hand, eyes bright with anger.

“You’re grounded.”

Steve gapes. “I- what?”

“Grounded,” his dad repeats. He rotates his hand, palm up. “Give me your keys and your credit card. Now.”

Steve hands over his keys and fishes his wallet from his back pocket. His hands are shaking are he tugs out his credit card. His father makes no comment.

“For the next week,” his dad says, slipping the keys and card into the front pocket of his nice slacks, “you are to go to school and come home. If you’re not home an hour after practice, your punishment will be lengthened. Do I make myself clear?”

Steve’s throat bobs.

“Do I make myself clear?” his dad repeats, tone rigid.

“Yes, sir,” Steve mumbles.

“Good. Now, for _God's_ sake, clean up your mess and go to your room.”

But Steve is frozen, locked in place, eyes stuck on the bat. His dad notices.

“And I’m throwing this _thing_ in the garbage where it should be,” he spits contemptuously.

The breath whooshes out of his lungs in a sharp exhale, and when he inhales, it’s liquid fear. Cold and sharp and crisp, and he's drowning in it.

Steve shakes his head, a tense jerk of motion. “No.”

He doesn’t even register the furious look his dad gives him. Only the icy fear in his lungs and the white-hot rage pushing through his bloodstream.

“No. You can’t,” he says, vaguely registering the way his voice shakes. “You can’t fucking-”

A sharp crack of sound.

It takes Steve a moment to connect the dots between his father’s rage-reddened face and the sudden sting in his cheek.

His dad jabs a finger at him, that vein in his forehead prominent and throbbing.

“I may not be around all the time, but I _am_ your father, and you _will_ listen to me,” he hisses, voice low, dangerous. “Go to your fucking room.”

Steve blinks once, then turns and bolts up the stairs, nearly tripping over his own feet. He is mindful not to slam his bedroom door, even despite his inner turmoil.

He doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night. Just watches the way the soft blue glow from the pool bouncing against his bedroom wall and thinks.

Thinks about a lot, and about nothing at all.


End file.
